“Oh cripes,” says Fiona.
“Such that the tongue,” continues Agnes, “scissored from the hollow of the mouth and rolled thusly in its blood upon the lees of new vintage…”
“Indeed,” says Dorcas, knowingly. “Sur lie.”
“Hath better hope of transmitting that wine’s savor than that befouled organ which ever thickens in thine jaws and tells not the larded collop from the prune though death be the difference…”
Reading faster now, Agnes holds up a finger. Ozark shuts her mouth with a pop.
“…and in death, no relief but rather torment as from the fangs of spiders grown inward from the skin, until the eglantine blooming upon the head of the marble statue of Trophonius, erected in the oracular cave of that divinity, be plucked and offered to the shepherd his flock torn by wolves across the north-flowing river or other compensation as judged meet.”
Agnes breathes out. We all breathe out.
“No, it won’t work in English,” says Agnes. “I’ve lost the hexameter.”
“It’s not very festive,” says Bryce.
“In case of party crashers,” says Agnes.
“Still,” says Bryce.
[:]
Agnes tiptoes to the little room beneath the stairs and puts her ear to the door. Would Hildegard like lunch? Agnes slips a chocolate coin beneath the door. She listens.
“L’hommelette!” says a voice.
As far as Agnes knows “h” is not pronounced in any of the Romance languages.
“Finno-Ugric?” wonders Agnes. “A magic language?”
[:]
In the front yard, Bryce has nearly finished laying the bricks, a pathway all through the cairns.
“There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home,” whispers Bryce. She clicks three times with Bertrand’s wooden clogs. A loose leaf of red lettuce falls from the closest cairn.
“Oh well,” says Bryce. What did she expect?
“Hollywood,” thinks Bryce, ruefully. Bryce regards a cockatoo. Did it always have that golden comb? Its eyes are gleaming. Bryce turns the key.
“Happy Birthday!” says the cockatoo. “Happy Birthday!”
“Shhhh,” says Bryce. “You’ll jinx it.”
X
Agnes opens the parlor door. Agnes adheres to the Rules of Civility & Decent Behaviour In Company and Conversation. She spits not in the Fire and she kills no Vermin as Fleas, Lice, Ticks, &c in the Sight of Others; she lets her Countenance be pleasant but in Serious Matters somewhat grave, and above all she shews no Sign of Cholar and neither Curses nor Reviles.
Agnes trembles at the threshold.
“Even for a woman of assiduous restraint,” whispers Agnes, “A woman who pays decorous inattention to the most egregious daily insults…” She takes a faltering step into the parlor.
“Even for a queen of the turned cheek…” She lowers her forearm from her eyes.
“The word is… unendurable,” breathes Agnes. Chewing gum foils and bottle caps. Acorns and cocktail sabers. Sequined leaflets. Tea bags filled with candy hearts. No, she cannot deny it. In the straining muscles of her outthrust jaw, Agnes identifies the presage of violent distemper. Agnes swallows. Her toe stubs upon a stack of records. She winces at the crash of Hanover shellac.
“The East Chisenbury middens?” wonders Agnes. “The rub bish heap of Oxyrhynchus?” She eyes something shrouded.
“Bryce?” she hisses, and yanks the leech of a gaff sail.
“Odsbodikins!” curses Agnes. Magazines come tumbling towards her, Dusselgossips and Helsinki Winkis, Birkensnakes and La-canian Inks and… Agnes hurls herself from the parlor. She slams the door. She leans her back against it.
“Well,” says Agnes. She hums a few bars of the Colombian Anthem. The Colombian Anthem is remarkably restorative of the personal composure.
“Oh yes,” says Agnes, brightly. “Otter gauntlets.” Can you order otter gauntlets from the Dusselgossip? Not likely. Where to start looking? Agnes trips over a tower of library books and falls into the dining room. She feels light-headed. A musk otter on the mantel! It’s not moving.
“Origami,” thinks Agnes. Or is it macramé?
Agnes takes the musk otter and inspects the underside. She hears a sound.
“ZZZZZZZZZ!” says a collective voice. The sound is coming from a place that Agnes would identify as “swim bladder.” The term is not zoologically accurate, but it is polite. She hangs up immediately.
She watches Bryce tape pictures of the Finnish National Hockey Team to a television screen.
“What is a family anyway?” Agnes asks herself. “A cytoplas-mic sequence? A postal code?”
[:]
Mrs. Borage was born on Montag.
“Of course,” says Agnes. “The Moon God.”
Every twenty-eight years, the days of the month return to the same days of the week. It is impossible to celebrate your 100th birthday in consonance with the Moon God if you were born on Montag.
“According to the Julian Calendar,” observes Mrs. Borage.
Mrs. Borage follows the Calendar of Drifting Hours. It is also called the Calendar of Midnights. It may even be called the Veterinarian’s Calendar. Dorcas thinks that it is.
“Then when does the party begin?” asks Agnes.
“When the guests arrive,” says Mrs. Borage.
[:]
Bryce stops outside the little room beneath the stairs. She slips a pixie stix beneath the door. Something furry slides out.
“A Rattenkönig,” gasps Bryce. She looks around to see if anyone could have heard her. How could she think it was a Ratten-könig? It is a sheet of fake mustaches. Bryce thinks of all the hair she’s swept into the dustbin in her lifetime and feels ill.
“They are beautiful,” says Bryce. She recognizes one of the mustaches. The young man from the pinochle deck. Of course.
“More slings and arrows,” sighs Bryce. She sticks the mustache to her palm, where her heart line used to be. It tickles.
[:]
Agnes is at loose ends. She puts the Crown of Light on her head. The Crown of Light fits strangely. She wanders through the kitchen, out of sorts. Should Ozark tell her that candle wax is dripping on the lenses of her safety goggles? Ozark is too busy eating anchovies. Anchovies are brain food.
Agnes opens the oven door. What’s this? Oh yes. An alarming letter.
[:]
Dear Dr. Agnes Pancake,
Within moments, a French rocket ship will pass through a spore-nebula of Teufelsdreck, enter Earth’s atmosphere, and drop into the sea, contaminating the world’s air and water supplies with innumerable microscopic spores of Teufesldreck. We invite you to imagine the sea roiling, the valley flooding, red waves, kittens on the gambrel roofs, Wedgewood pitchers, bisque Frozen Charlottes, who knows what-all whatnots. Teufelsflotsam. Teufelsjetsam. Horrors.
Here at the National Zoological Society, we have partnered with Greater Friends & Chemicals of Western Rhode Island to develop O-poxy, a heat-reactive compound that will expand in the thermosphere, creating a powerful seal, thereby preventing the rocket ship and its bacterial cargo from a disastrous re-entry. We believe O-poxy provides the only hope for our civilization.
We are asking for your financial contribution. Every dollar pledged helps ward off the imminent exothanatos.
Sincerely,
The NZS Team
We are not sure exactly how alarmed we should feel. Agnes often receives this sort of letter. Agnes is an heiress.
As for the plesiosaurs in Lake Champlain, Agnes believes that they are sovereign creatures, or, at the least, supraterritorial. Neither Burlington nor Montreal can claim them. Lobbyists should expect no response from Dr. Agnes Pancake.
[:]
For the record:
Mrs. Borage is not alarmed at all. Mrs. Borage remembers the burning sky in Siberia. She regards the stuffed clownfish hanging from the branches of the hat stand, better known as “After the Tunguska Fireb
all.”
Mrs. Borage turns the keys and the jaws of the clownfish start popping.
“Que sera, sera,” sing the clownfish.
“Que sera, sera,” sings Mrs. Borage.
[:]
“My fingers smell like gas,” says Bryce.
“Gas has no odor,” says Mrs. Borage. “You are smelling the odorizing agents.” Mrs. Borage likes the smell of the odorizing agents. They smell like cabbage.
Either way, Bryce decides to eat her cinnamon toast in elbow-length leather gloves.
“Tannins,” warns Mrs. Borage. “Tannins.”
X
Bryce is uncoupling the gas lines in the elementary school cafeteria. She removes the bottles of gas. All done. She looks around the cafeteria.
What’s on the lunch menu for today? Sloppy Joes, tater tots, and pizza! How wonderful! Bryce takes her tray to a table in the corner. Her smock is a big hit with the children.
“We like the bunnies,” say the children.
“Fertility,” says Bryce, with some horror. She is not used to being surrounded by children. It frightens her. They are sticky and small with big, irregularly blinking eyes. Bryce takes a few bottles of nail polish from her pockets and lets them paint her beret. While they paint, she eats their tater tots. One serving is not enough for someone of Bryce’s age and stature.
Bryce finds more and more to like about the children. A very plump girl has just painted a tolerable portrait of Rutherford B. Hayes right in the middle of the beret. Rutherford B. Hayes would not have been Bryce’s first choice in portraiture, but the very plump girl has given him the eyes that Bryce likes, the ones that follow you all around the room. A very plump boy has just painted a blob. Upon closer inspection, it is Pangaea. The children are fantastically talented.
“To think, not long ago you were sea creatures,” marvels Bryce.
The lunch monitor is approaching. Bryce gathers up the bottles of gas. She puts on her beret. She feels quite full. The nail polish is giving her a headache.
“See you all tomorrow!” says Bryce.
[:]
Have the townspeople noticed that their ovens aren’t working? They have not. The townspeople have many things to eat that do not require ovens. The townspeople are eating Bismarcks and Waldorf Salads and crudités and the many kinds of breakfast cereal available in the supermarket. Bryce likes to go and look at the boxes of breakfast cereal. They are perfect just the way they are.
[:]
Mrs. Scattergood is buying muesli. There is a woman next to her in line who smells like a nail salon. The woman is giving Mrs. Scattergood a thunderous look. Her shopping cart is filled with sliced bread.
“One of those crazy women who feeds the birds,” thinks Mrs. Scattergood. As though the birds did not have plenty to eat in Nature, beechnuts and pinecones and pussy willows and litter, all the ripped opened packets of ketchup. Mrs. Scattergood has been reading the science journals. Avian obesity—entire flocks too fat to fly south, freezing to death in the eaves of the houses. She returns the woman’s thunderous look.
Nearby, an extremely tiny old man is sitting in a shopping cart in footsie pajamas. He is bald with a walrus mustache. He waves at Mrs. Scattergood.
“Hello, Herr Walrossbart,” says Mrs. Scattergood. “Peek-a-
boo.”
[:]
Agnes is the only paleozoologist in the county. It is remarkable that she can’t find steadier work.
“There are very few opportunities in this town,” says Agnes. Very few technical careers, very few high-level executive positions or full professorships, very few objets petit a. Agnes is certain that’s why Bertrand left us.
“Where does it say that?” asked Bryce. Agnes held the note to her chest.
“She’s gone to find her objet petit a,” said Agnes. “It’s what she doesn’t say.”
[:]
Years ago, before Hildegard, we had a foreign student named Dragomir. He was merry and ate many eggs. He arrived with a note written on the stationery of the General Inspectorate of Romanian Police.
Dragomir is pleased to study the polynomial rings.
Dragomir was not pleased to study the polynomial rings. Instead he hammered all day in the room beneath the stairs and built a beautiful red and silver bicycle rickshaw. He left two scratches, one on either side of the hallway, from his wide handlebars, and he rode away through the center of town, up the entrance ramp, onto the highways of the United States of America.
[:]
Hildegard was not pleased to study the polynomial rings either. She was very skilled at listening to headphones. She also worked on an artistic project. Every day she added chewing gum to the enormous ball of chewing gum in the kitchen. Bryce helped by chewing lots of gum. She and Hildegard chewed gum at the dining room table.
Bryce sang and Hildegard bobbed her head, listening to headphones.
Bryce sang “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” Of course, she cried, singing. We all cried. Mrs. Borage chewed bubble gum cigarettes, just one a day. Dorcas chewed the straws in her root beer floats. She added them to the enormous ball of chewing gum. Don’t tell Hildegard.
“Could she have gotten into Dragomir’s solvents?” worries Agnes.
“It’s more likely that her walkman ran out of batteries,” says Fiona. Fiona made sure to take all of Dragomir’s solvents.
“There wasn’t a distaff?” asks Agnes.
“There was an arc welder,” says Fiona. “I have it.”
[:]
Mrs. Scattergood looks at the pink arrow on the church. She looks at the pink arrow on the courthouse. She walks around the library. No one has painted anything on the library.
“I would even have to write a grant for vandals,” thinks Mrs. Scattergood.
Another warm day. The kingfisher wind rattles the dry leaves on the trees. Mrs. Scattergood sits down on the empty bench in front of the library. Should she relocate circulation services? It would be nice to sit out on the bench today. Mrs. Scattergood wonders if she is suffering from a deficit of natural light. Probably. She picks up a pinecone. She counts the golden spirals. She glances down the street. Mr. Henderson? No, it is a crooked streetlamp.
Mrs. Scattergood feels goosebumps travel up and down, up and down, all around the helices of her inner ear. Someone is watching her! She glances over her shoulder. She meets the granite eyes of Dorothy Canfield Fisher.
“What’s this?” asks Mrs. Scattergood. She approaches the statue. Dorothy Canfield Fisher seems disapproving. Mrs. Scattergood has always felt intimidated by Dorothy Canfield Fisher. From the look of her, she was an accomplished and disdainful person.
Someone has put a bookmark in Dorothy Canfield Fisher’s book. Mrs. Scattergood takes it out.
The morning star equals the morning star.
The morning star equals the evening star.
Usually, Mrs. Scattergood parses with ease.
“The morning star equals the morning star,” says Mrs. Scattergood. “The morning star equals the evening star.”
“Hmmmm,” says Mrs. Scattergood.
“I am defeated,” she thinks. Dorothy Canfield Fisher remains silent. She is smirking.
“I should take away your book,” says Mrs. Scattergood. “It’s overdue.”
X
Bryce is late to turn in the horoscopes this week. She wrote them in the alphabet of daggers, a magic alphabet. It took a long time. Will the newspaper office have the right typeface? Bryce carves 26 potato stamps. Off she goes down the sidewalk, pulling her wagon of potatoes. She is wearing a green tunic and her favorite green felt shoes. She whistles. She waves to everyone she passes. She forgets and waves with the hairy palm. Oh well.
[:]
Ms. Kidney is lying on her parka playing a purple finger harp. Strong fingers—where would the organ grinder’s monkey be without them?
“A strange horoscope,” says Mr. Henderson. His hands are folded in his lap. He gives his wheel a small shove. The dry clay particles spin into the ai
r and flurry down.
Mr. Henderson takes a lump of clay from his bucket. He supposes he should try again. He will need a little port.
“There must be a bit of port,” says Mr. Henderson.
“A bit?” says Ms. Kidney.
“A drop?” says Mr. Henderson.
“A nip,” says Ms. Kidney. “There is a nip of port, Sebastian.”
“May I have it?” says Mr. Henderson.
“The shoes in the basement belong to the barefoot,” says Ms. Kidney.
It is not her horoscope. It is the thieves’ creed. It does not vary with nativity.
[:]
In the newspaper office, which is really his parents’ garage, Ace Reporter Duncan Michaels has just finished writing the much-anticipated biography of Bathsheba Spooner. He hopes it can be cross-listed as Regional, Rich & Famous, and True Crime. He fears he may be challenged on his style. The long digressions, the extended metaphors, the sprinkling of epic similes—in his newspaper articles these have passed without comment, but the newspaper is not read by book editors. Usually, the newspaper is not read at all. It is burned in the woodstoves and hearths of the townspeople. Only Mr. Lomberg, the retired fire marshall, would even recognize his style.
“By the scent,” thinks Ace Reporter Duncan Michaels.
Someone is knocking on the door of the newspaper office. Ace Reporter Duncan Michaels puts on his fedora. He opens the door. It is mysterious Anaxamandra Pax Britannica, the horoscope writer. She has a wagonload of potatoes.
“I have changed my mind about the alphabet of daggers,” says Anaxamandra Pax Britannica. “This week’s horoscope will be written in the language of love.”
She gives him a handful of paper. Paper? It is dozens of origami crustaceans. Ace Reporter Duncan Michaels recognizes the starfish, but there are other kinds of stars, six-pointed, eight pointed, twelve-pointed stars, and there are spindle tibias and heart cockles and rose harps. There is a helmet vase, a crowned baler, a boat ear moon.
The Mothering Coven Page 5